Relics
by jtm1848
Summary: The ongoing adventures of Spruce lead him into an ancient tomb.


With one hand raised into a fist, Spruce hesitated for a split second before pounding on the door before him.

He wasn't _scared,_ that much the young man was certain of; but he was… _concerned_ might be a more appropriate word, Spruce realized. The house—and it was, most definitely, a house, tucked away in one corner of sleepy Sandpoint—had clearly seen its better years. Now, with fading paint shadowed deeply by the early night, cobwebs visible in the dimly-lit windows, and shutters starting to fall, Spruce could only wonder at what he was getting into.

But he trusted his friend, Ameiko Kaijitsu. The owner and keeper of the Rusty Dragon Tavern and Inn, the beautiful young woman had just this day asked the young adventurer for a favor; a favor for her, and a favor for a friend of her father, deceased these many years. Spruce could scarcely say no.

 _And it's true,_ Spruce pondered as he knocked on the once-ornate wooden door, dislodging a cloud of dust into his eyes. _I wouldn't have passed on this for anything._ The thrill and the excitement chased him across the small town, and with each step he imagined the prospects of his new adventure; _anything but giant spiders,_ he thought, _and I can handle it._ He shuddered momentarily at the thought of the oversized arachnids.

The door swung open suddenly, letting a faint breeze of potpourri escape from the house within. A small butler stood in the opening, and he gestured for Spruce to follow him inside.

Spruce's head turned about as he entered the doorway. The foyer was lavishly decorated with tapestries and a chandelier, but like the exterior of the house, it seemed _old,_ somehow, unkept and past its prime; the years had not fared this house well. The decorations, he noted, were faded, and curling at the edges; covered with a fine layer of dust, they were aging poorly, in dire need of cleaning or replacement.

"Where am I—" Spruce started to ask the butler about the location of his host, one Eberius Tauranor, but the small butler let out a simple _hush_ and waved the large adventurer forward; down the hallway, third door to the left.

Sitting at one end of a long, wooden table, finely carved, was a tall, thin man, nearly as old as the house; his features were tightly chiseled, and thin strips of white hair hung across a gaping bald spot on the top of his head. "Come on in," Eberius—for it was Eberius—grumbled, and he waved to Spruce to take a seat at the far end of the lengthy table.

"Ah, I am Spruce," the young man replied as he crossed the room, minding his manners around the older patron. Pulling out the chair, Spruce took a seat, cringing slightly as he noticed the caked mud on his boots flecking off; it quickly disappeared into the intricate pattern of the plush carpeting.

"I know who you are." A quick look of impatience flashed across Eberius' face. "Now, to the matter at hand…"

 _That's quick,_ Spruce reflected, as he was still settling into his chair; he had nearly ran across Sandpoint following Ameiko's request—the young barkeep had asked him to attend to Eberius yet this evening—and even the hardening adventurer was running low on breath; a chance to catch some air would be nice, and perhaps an offer of a beverage would be appropriate…

Eberius scowled across the length of the table. "A business—contact—of mine has recently fallen on tough times," the older man said quietly; his voice was cracked and raspy, barely audible for the young Spruce, who leaned forward as far as he dared. "But he can't risk letting his rivals know of his weakness."

Catching the pause in Eberius' tale, Spruce nodded to demonstrate that he was following along.

Eberius snorted in irritation. "I offered my assistance, and together, we have kept his difficulties private." The old man's voice was starting to firm up as he spoke. "But my assistance does not come free."

With little else to say, Spruce nodded again; he decided to forego commenting that his own assistance, here tonight, was being freely given.

"My acquaintance has been very eager to pay me, from the only source of wealth he has left," Eberius continued. "His family has an ancient mausoleum outside of town, which he believes contains gold and jewels. He has promised to let me keep whatever I can retrieve."

Eberius paused to sip his beverage before moving on. "I believe, however…" he glanced around, as if checking for their privacy. "I believe that there is an artifact of great value in that woe begotten tomb. Several hundred years ago, one of his ancestors rose high in the hierarchy of Aroden. High enough to be rewarded with a _shepherd's crosier._ " Eberius emphasized the last two words as he sat back, as if in triumph.

Spruce's eyes opened wide at the reference, for he understood exactly why Eberius was so keen for privacy. A _shepherd's crosier_ was an invaluable scepter from a different day and age in Varisia; from hundreds of years previous, when civil wars still rampaged across the now-sleepy countryside. Only the highest priests of Aroden were awarded with the ornate ceremonial scepters, and carried them as a sign of authority that granted the bearer diplomatic immunity across battlelines. Two-foot-long mithral rods, covered in gold leaf and gems, they were beyond price in the modern market.

"My contact may not even be aware that he possesses such a treasure," Eberius went on, "and I'd rather you not jog his memory. Since we have so graciously been granted this opportunity to explore his family's property, I want you to recover that scepter."

"Of course," Spruce said, formally acknowledging the mission. He scooted his chair back, expecting to be dismissed.

Eberius, however, continued to speak. "Anything else you find, you can keep," he said, "assuming, of course, that you can carry it out." He snorted sharply, as if trying to laugh.

"Will—will there be anything else?" Spruce asked; he was poised on the edge of his seat.

"Of course there is," Eberius harrumphed. "You didn't think this would be _that_ easy, did you? Rumor has it that the Bloody Knuckles are onto this tomb." Spruce recognized the reference to a gang of thieves operating out of the nearby city of Magnimar. "Three of them arrived in town, just this morning. Watch out for them."

Eberius pulled a crumpled note out from one pocket and tossed it onto the table. "This map will show you how to reach the vault," he stated. "From there, you're on your own."

…

And so it was that Spruce found himself standing _here,_ on a hillside beyond the walls of Sandpoint, as the sun rose steadily towards its daily zenith. The map, scrawled though it was, had been flawless, leading the young adventurer directly to the entrance of the semi-hidden tomb.

Spruce sighed as he studied the door carefully; made of wrought metal, it was heavily caked in dried mud and dirt. Nestled firmly in the surrounding rock, it was made many decades previous, and Spruce doubted that it had been opened in nearly that long of time. There was, oddly enough, a knocker on the door—and feeling foolish, Spruce reached out and used it, knocking firmly three times, as the reverberations knocked loose a cloud of dust from the door.

Bending closer, Spruce found a simple latch holding the door shut, and he flipped it open; the door itself refused to move until the young man applied nearly all of his strength to pulling on it. Then, and only then, did the door creak open, making an ear-splitting noise the entire way.

 _If there's anything in here, it definitely knows that I'm coming,_ Spruce thought as he stepped first one foot, then the other, into the mausoleum. Holding a torch before him, he quickly found himself surrounded by the darkened interior.

Passing chamber upon chamber, Spruce found little remarkable to note. The tomb was clearly ill-maintained, with roots protruding overhead like stalactites; but nothing stirred, including the skeletons that lurked beneath every tombstone. _And no spiders,_ Spruce reflected happily; indeed, the only thing conspicuous about the mausoleum was a lack of webs hidden in the corners.

Coming to the end of the main chamberway, Spruce descended a narrow flight of stairs, and entered the final room.

The massive stone chamber must've been… _seventy by forty?_ Spruce guessed, trying to get a handle on the dimensions of the oversized room; given its size—and the height of the soaring ceiling overhead, it likely occupied the very center of the roundtop hill that held the extensive mausoleum. Magical, flameless torches illuminated the entirety of the room, which ended on the far side with two thrones sitting on a dais.

But the most interesting feature—as Spruce saw it—was the deep chasm that ran across the room's center, splitting the chamber in two; for in the chasm, itself some twenty feet wide, was a strange series of columns rising up from the blackened pit within.

 _It's got to be a trap of some kind,_ Spruce thought to himself as he stepped closer to the strange columns. Each one was five feet in diameter, but not each five-foot block of space contained a column; and the top of each column was flush with the surface of the floor.

And the top of each column featured an arcane rune carved into the stone. In the magical light, Spruce did his best to read the archaic symbols; but his arcane knowledge was very limited, and they made no sense to him.

 _Here goes nothing,_ Spruce reflected as he hesitantly placed one foot on the first column. He paused for a moment, one foot still on the stone floor with the other on the column, but nothing was happening; the footing was stable, and the column wasn't moving. In fact, the only change was that the rune started to glow a bright yellow.

Spruce let out his breath as he shifted his full weight onto the column; it held him easily.

Deciding to not test his luck, Spruce moved quickly across the stone columns, zig-zagging around a missing block. Each time, when he landed on a column, it started glowing the same bright yellow; but nothing more happened.

Spruce reached the far side of the columns and found safe purchase on the stone floor of the large chamber. Turning his attention to the far end of the room, he advanced forward, moving at a guarded slow pace.

A large stone dais stood along the far wall, with two stone thrones erected upon it; the thrones, he saw, were hewn roughly identical, coated liberally with dust, and carved with ancient Azlanti words. Behind and above the thrones, however, two different scenes were carved into the stone wall. Behind the throne to his right, as he faced the wall, was a scene featuring an artist, a beggar, a craftsman, a scholar, a soldier, and a tailor; behind the throne to the left, however, was a scene featuring a farmer, a fisherman, a hunter, a shepherd, and a thief. Most of these, he recognized, were various aspects of the god Aroden; but Spruce, again, did not have the requisite knowledge to decipher the two scenes.

With little to go on, he began to search the thrones.

Throwing his weight into it, Spruce was able to lift the first throne he tried—on the right—and, to his satisfaction, the young adventurer found a hidden cache beneath. Laying in it was a small sack with (approximately) four hundred gold pieces, and a package wrapped in ceremonial cloth covered in holy sigils of Aroden.

Spruce checked around for any obvious traps, then withdrew the wrapped cloth; and unwrapping it, he found a scepter, roughly two feet long and two inches in diameter, covered in gold leaf and small semi-precious gems. The top end terminated in a shepherd's crook, and as he held it in the magical torchlight, Spruce noticed that the bluish outline of a small winged eye framed by the hook shimmered into view.

 _Success!_ Spruce thought excitedly as he carefully wrapped the scepter back up. By its description, this had to be the _shepherd's crosier!_

With wind at his back, Spruce pushed back the remaining throne, revealing yet another hidden compartment. Reaching in, he pulled out a trove of what appeared to be holy texts; a _scroll of daylight;_ and…

An identical scepter.

 _Which one is real?_ Spruce thought to himself as he turned the second _shepherd's crosier_ over in his hands. There existed the possibility, he supposed, that they both were…but Spruce recognized it as far more likely that one was a cleverly-constructed fake. _And which one is it?_ The two scepters were, to all appearances, exactly identical. Perhaps Eberius would know.

Spruce turned about, ready to leave the chamber, and came to a sudden stop; three men stood on the far side of the chasm, blocking the doorway out.

The first man—for Spruce was quickly assessing his apparent foes—was standing a pace or two in front of the other two, was dressed in full plate armor, with a heavy steel shield, and carried a battleaxe in his right hand; the other two were dressed similar to one another, each one in scale mail covered by a dark blue cloak, and were wielding light steel shields and longswords.

 _Are these the Bloody Knuckles?_ Spruce wondered to himself, almost certain that he knew the answer. The one saving grace that he could see was that none of his foes carried ranged weapons. _That,_ he knew, gave him a chance against three-to-one odds.

That and the odd stone columns.

The leader of the Bloody Knuckles chose that moment to speak up. "You there!" he bellowed out, his voice echoing in the cavernous room. "Hand over the _shepherd's crosier_!" The man took another step forward and swung his battleaxe about in a transparent attempt at intimidation.

 _It almost works, too,_ Spruce acknowledged as he gulped down his fear. The young adventurer stepped up, bringing himself to the brink of the chasm. "And if I don't?" he called out, his own voice sounding tiny to his ears.

"Then you'll be the newest corpse in this tomb!" the other man responded.

 _Very well._ Spruce stepped forward onto the first stone column, noting that the rune changed colors to a bright orange as he placed his foot upon it. Unsheathing his magical longsword, he brought it up and into position, ready for a fight.

The two cloaked swordsmen came charging at him, leaping across the stone columns with apparent ease, one a half-stride in front of the other.

Spruce swung his sword as the first assailant closed within range of the weapon, and it sizzled with brilliant blue energy as his attacker blocked it with his shield. Undeterred, Spruce was already pulling the longsword back and swinging it about, catching the other man with his sword drooping. With all his force, Spruce pushed ahead, toppling the assailant from the stone column and into the chasm below.

A shot of pain tore up Spruce's unguarded left arm as the second assailant made contact, slicing through his leather tunic and leaving behind a flesh wound trailing deep-red blood; and Spruce spun around, squaring up against the attacker, his longsword held at the ready. Sensing a narrow opportunity to strike, Spruce swung the weapon down from on high; the assailant adjusted rapidly, bringing his shield up and above to block, but the force of the blow sent the attacker staggering, his feet off-balance.

Taking the opportunity as it presented itself, Spruce reached out and pushed the second assailant backward. The man's arms went cartwheeling, his sword and shield forgotten, and he, too, fell over backwards, tumbling into the chasm.

"Well done," the leader of the Bloody Knuckles contingent grumbled. "But you still have to beat me."

Spruce gulped again as he assessed his chances, and it didn't look good; the Knuckle was fully outfitted in heavy armor and shield, wielding a mighty battleaxe, whereas the plucky adventurer was dressed in leather and lacking any shield at all. _How do I survive this?_ Spruce wondered, afraid that his life was about to come to a quick end.

The Knuckle stepped forward onto a stone pillar, changing the rune from bright orange to a ruby red, and Spruce looked on in shocked amusement as the pillar collapsed beneath the Knuckle.

 _Don't question good luck,_ Spruce told himself in wonderment. Pulling his gear and treasure together, the young man quickly fled the room, making his way from the tomb without any further trouble.

…

And so, Spruce again found himself knocking on the dust-covered door to Eberius Tauranor's home, just as the sun was sinking below the western horizon.

"You've done well, my boy," Eberius croaked out as he showed Spruce into the faded foyer. The old man carried both _shepherd's crosiers_ deeper into the house, where he turned a corner into the library. Amid the aging, decaying books, Eberius found a magnifying glass and affixed it to his eye. Eberius looked as both items carefully. "The second one is a fake," he pronounced, holding it up into the light. To Spruce's untrained eye, it still glowed with the full spectacle of the original. "But the gems are valuable. If you want, I'll give you 150 gold pieces for it."

"Agreed," Spruce said happily, extending his hand for a shake; and a second later, Eberius reciprocated with a flimsy grip. With the gold gained from this adventure, the young man finally had enough to invest in a suit of mithral chainmail—and his aching arm told him that it was past time to make such an investment.

 _Until next time,_ Spruce told himself, wondering what was in store for him next.


End file.
